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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26456977">if you see something, say something</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/doofusface/pseuds/doofusface'>doofusface</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Mr. Iglesias (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(lol for now), Canon Compliant, Conversations, Established Relationship, F/M, Feelings, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Gen, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, time to say ilu!! time to be deathly afraid because you're sixteen and dating your best friend!!!!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:15:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,171</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26456977</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/doofusface/pseuds/doofusface</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“‘College’ or ‘life’ today, Mikey?” Ms. Ontiveros asks, two folders ready on her desk.</p>
<p>“Do you know what it’s like to want to tell someone something, but you’re scared you’re gonna mess up what you have?” Mikey blurts out.</p>
<p>Ms. Ontiveros nods, putting both folders away. “Girlfriend it is.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Marisol Fuentes &amp; Mikey Gutierrez, Marisol Fuentes &amp; Mikey Gutierrez &amp; Jackie Ontiveros, Marisol Fuentes/Mikey Gutierrez, Walt Dobbs &amp; Marisol Fuentes &amp; Mikey Gutierrez &amp; Grace Li &amp; Lorenzo Webber</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>113</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>if you see something, say something</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>s/o to my og beta for returning to read this &lt;3 u the best for living w my fandom changes HAHAHA</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Mr. Iglesias throws them a good-natured jab in the hallway—something about watching their PDA before Mr. Hernandez starts giving them tickets—and Marisol rolls her eyes as he walks into his classroom.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re taking it slow!” she says, that slightly lopsided smile of hers betraying some mischief.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(Mikey’s heard her say it to people multiple times since the play, but it doesn’t really make his inner turmoil ease up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Like at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>Zero percent</em>.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marisol turns back to him, arms still looped around his middle with his securely on her waist. She winks, raises her heels, and pecks him on the lips. “You think Hernandez will try to fine us?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mikey snickers. “You think he won’t?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re why he has the drama department.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, true,” Mikey nods, doing that thing where he gets lost in her eyes accidentally and for too long.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She chortles, patting his chest and pulling away. “Okay, Romeo—that’s gonna get us late for class.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What is?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her smile’s barely showing, but he sees it in her eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>...<em>aaand</em>, he’s lost again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(But, to be fair, she’s gazing at him, too.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...Forget it,” she says after a second, clearing her throat. She closes her locker. “Walk me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grabs her hand, fingers weaving through hers. It’s an old sensation by now, considering they’d spent the entire summer in each other’s company, jobs and workshops not included.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It still makes Mikey lose his mind and smile like he’s won the lottery...but hasn’t he, though?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hasn’t he?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(<em>Hasn’t he?</em>)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Always will,” he says with the slightest shrug of his shoulders. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s soft and gentle and Marisol absolutely has not learned how to handle herself after he does stuff like this, so yeah, they freeze again in the hallway, eyes on each other until Mikey’s jaw drops open to say—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>RIIIIIIING!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And just like that he’s at square one, because they’re taking the three strides to the history classroom before the second bell, and he still can’t say the words that have been stuck in his throat for the last who-knows-how-long.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mr. Iglesias waits for the second bell, takes attendance, and starts his spiel about Belgian fries.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mikey looks at his girlfriend, with her pencil out and taking notes like no one else, and smiles like a goofball.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>We’re taking it slow</em>, echoes in his mind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>Don’t say it, man</em>, he tells himself for the nth time since their first kiss. <em>Don’t mess this up.</em></span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>Ms. Ontiveros’ existence is the greatest thing to happen to him since Marisol liking him back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘College’ or ‘life’ today, Mikey?” Ms. Ontiveros asks, two folders ready on her desk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you know what it’s like to want to tell someone something, but you’re scared you’re gonna mess up what you have?” Mikey blurts out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ms. Ontiveros nods, putting both folders away. “Girlfriend it is.” She tosses him a stress ball. “Try not to break that one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry,” he says sheepishly, remembering the permanently flattened ball from last week.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eh, I buy in bulk.” She nods at him. “What’s up?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mikey squeezes the stress ball. “I, um, want to tell Marisol something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, on the ‘I love you’s now, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aaand...officially flattened. “W-What? I didn’t—<em>psh</em>—why would you think—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ms. Ontiveros tosses him a replacement. “Natural progression in a good relationship. Besides, you’ve known each other for years, so it’s not really surprising,” she says, watching him gingerly place the sad remains of the first ball on her desk. She smiles. “That’s fine, Mikey. Anyway—any reason for the hesitation? You seem like the kinda guy who loves to show his feelings.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am,” Mikey says, sighing heavily. “You get me, Ms. Ontiveros.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ms. Ontiveros smirks. “Permission to tell Mr. Iglesias that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just kidding.” She leans back, a hand out motioning to him. “You didn’t explain?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Mikey says, ducking his head. “Yeah, um, just...<em>Marisol</em>, right?” Pause, and a gulp. “She keeps telling people we’re taking it slow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That gets Ms. Ontiveros’ eyebrows up. “Oh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<em>And we are</em>,” Mikey emphasizes, “but I’m also really close to saying it anyway. I almost said it like eighteen times this morning.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s a new record.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know!” He sighs. “I’m just scared that I’ll scare her off or something if I do say it, y’know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(Ms. Ontiveros writes<em> Looks like kicked puppy</em> on her notepad.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mikey slumps down into his chair, staring at the ceiling. “Everything’s so good right now. I don’t wanna mess it up.” He closes his eyes. “Just once. Just <em>once</em>, I don’t wanna mess something up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you want advice or an ear?” Ms. Ontiveros says, smiling at him fondly. “Or both? Or neither?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mikey throws his hands up. “I want my girlfriend to not freak out if I tell her I’m in love with her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ear it is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you have this problem with Mr. Iglesias?” Mikey asks, tilting his head just enough to raise an innocent, perfectly confused brow at her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wh—<em>whaaaat</em>,” Ms. Ontiveros says, pitch rising. Her cheeks redden. “What are you talking ab—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>Shrug.</em> “Lorenzo saw you guys on the pier last week.” He gives a half smile. “I think it’s great, you’re like the best faculty here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s—<em>ahem</em>—thank you—I mean, we’re <em>not</em>—um,” Ms. Ontiveros says, exhaling slowly. “That’s not something you guys <em>told</em> everyone about, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>”No, but there’s a hashtag—“</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Great. Awesome. Will deal with that later.” She clears her throat. “And to your question—<em>no</em>, have yet to deal with that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oof, you’re lucky.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We don’t have your history.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mikey reddens. “Do you have any advice?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oho, I get to give advice, too? My lucky day,” Ms. Ontiveros says, a hand on her chest. She laughs a bit, trying to calm him down. “Mikey, just take it easy. If it happens, it happens. I’m sure she’ll understand.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But what if she doesn’t say it back and it’s awkward?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Marisol’s not gonna fault you for that. C’mon. Didn’t she kiss you first?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mikey nods.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“People like her don’t do things they don’t want to do,” Ms. Ontiveros says with a soft smile. “You’ll be fine.”</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>He’s not fine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grace calls him Casper as a joke at some point because he’s so pale, so yeah, he’s not fine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Walt makes a joke about Whitney’s new wardrobe during a lull in the lecture and Marisol gives Mikey that side glance—the one where she’s ducking her head and trying not to laugh—and he’s <em>not fine</em>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Words are messy and words are his enemy so he just sits there, eyes wide, stock-still, white as a friendly ghost.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All he’s ever known—expression, being an open book (granted, without his knowledge)—is thrown into a mental safe until he can figure out what to do about his feelings and the potential blow-up associated with them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The biggest problem is he wants, more than anything, to talk to his best friend about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And yeah.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s still Marisol.</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Marisol whispers, tapping his side. “You good?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(They’re at the movies and he’s got an arm around her and she’s like, half laying on him—recliners FTW—and it’s all supposedly perfect except the leads in the film are in the middle of their love confession scene and he’s <em>freaking out</em>.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh-huh,” Mikey says, only glancing at her briefly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She doesn’t tack anything on because they have seatmates and she’s <em>not</em> that rude, but it gets brought up again on the way back to her house.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re being...weird,” Marisol says awkwardly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(She’s holding his arm and looking at him like a kicked puppy, and <em>dangit</em>, now he’s <em>sweating</em>.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mikey gulps. “I’m not,” he squeaks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>Frown.</em> “Did I do something?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>No, but I might.</em> “No! What? You’re perfect,” Mikey stammers, and he gets a blush in return.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>Ahem.</em> “Okaaay...” Marisol starts, chewing the inside of her cheek, “...then why’ve you been avoiding my face since the movie?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>Because I’m ridiculously in love with you and don’t want to mess this up and if I look you in the eyes I might say it and you’ll be even more weirded out and</em>— “I just—” <em>Cough.</em> “—you make me nervous?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marisol smiles at him and quirks a brow. “Say what? Since when?” She tries not to laugh. “Mikey, you haven’t been nervous or shy around me since like, <em>June</em>.” Her brows drop with her squint. “You write me poems and recite them in public. Unprompted.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re always gonna make me nervous,” Mikey says, looking at her. It’s so soft, and he’s so, so gone—there’s a shred of moonlight on her hair, but the streetlights make up for everything else, and he just wants to say it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His jaw twitches.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She kisses him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(His brain is mush.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For what it’s worth,” she says, forehead on his after she pulls away, “you’re always going to make me nervous, too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No way?” he grins dopily, eyes half shut. “Nothing makes you nervous.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The play made me nervous.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, but you suck at acting.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<em>Hey.</em>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hehe,” Mikey says, his grin widening as he pecks her nose. “It’s okay. You were a really good Juliet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You just said I suck at acting!” Marisol gapes, brows furrowed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mikey takes her hand and tugs, walking ahead. “But you were a really good Juliet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...You’re gonna say—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“—‘cause you wanted to kiiiiss meee,” Mikey singsongs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marisol laughs, picking up her pace. She walks closer, going back to hugging his arm. “Ass.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You were checking it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You with confidence is terrifying.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mikey shrugs. He softens. “Only with you.” He is a sap, life is a tree, and this night is a tap. He shrugs, sucking in a breath. “You make me feel safe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marisol quirks a brow. “And Mr. Iglesias doesn’t?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Psh, but I can’t kiss Mr. Iglesias.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The brow goes higher.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...I don’t <em>want</em> to kiss Mr. Iglesias.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m learning so much about you,” Marisol teases, patting his chest. She leans her head on his arm, and keeps walking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can feel the smug little smirk on her cheek. “I don’t!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, Mikey.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maris<em>ooool</em>,” he whines, pouting and dragging his feet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She pats his chest again, not bothering to look up nor remove her smirk. “My lips are sealed.”</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>Her lips are not sealed, but only about something else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is a no-snitch policy that Ms. Ontiveros has been extremely diligent about keeping, and hey, Marisol doesn’t have many other free options anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think you can go ahead and do early application to Stanford,” Ms. Ontiveros says before Marisol even closes the door. Her counselor’s got a proud smile on and a stack of papers on her desk. “And I have a ton of scholarships for you to look at—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can we talk about Mikey?” Marisol blurts out, hands leaning on the back of the chair she so loves to sit in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(It’s cushioned and actually free of stains, so...)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...Oh, um,” Ms. Ontiveros blinks, “yeah, of course.” And again. “...This is new.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s been acting weird.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...Uh,” Ms. Ontiveros squints, lips presses to a thin line. “By that you mean—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Weirder than usual,” Marisol nods. She takes a deep breath and raises her shoulders. “I don’t get it. It’s like he’s <em>hiding</em> something. He doesn’t know how to hide something, not from me.” Pause. “Or. He <em>used</em> to not know. Now...”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you don’t know why or what it is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. Exactly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You wanna take a seat?” Ms. Ontiveros asks gently, offering a half smile. “I hear it makes most people calmer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s the undamaged upholstery,” Marisol quips, taking the offer. She slumps into the seat. “<em>Ugh</em>. I love this chair.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know. That’s why I told you to sit down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean. You asked.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you’re fairly easy to read.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, no acting awards in my future,” Marisol shrugs again, crossing her arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ms. Ontiveros quirks a brow. “And you think Mikey’s using his acting skills to hide something from you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe.” Pause. “I don’t know.” Pause. “Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You realize if you’re noticing that he’s probably not acting?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>Squint</em>. “Are you saying that because you think he’s objectively a superior actor or because you think he’s normally an open book?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“First choice, locking in my answer,” Ms. Ontiveros says playfully, smirking. “But the second is also true.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marisol hesitates. “Do you...” she leans forward, hands clasped together and blocking her mouth from view. “Do you know anything I should know about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ms. Ontiveros raises a brow, surprised but teasing. “Are you asking me to <em>snitch</em>, Ms. Fuentes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No! No<em>nono</em>no, what, <em>psh</em>,” Marisol says quickly, leaning back immediately. “<em>Never</em>. Of course not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because it <em>sounded</em>—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’mgood,we’re<em>good</em>,everything’sgood,” she says, cutting her off. She waves a hand. “Don’t need to talk about snitching.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ms. Ontiveros smirks. “Uh-huh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She clicks a pen open. “And you and Mikey—you’re good?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<em>We’re</em>...” Marisol says, scrunching up her face in thought, “...we’re <em>together</em>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. Um. I mean <em>still</em> together.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Obviously.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean, <em>staying</em> together.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh-huh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Marisol huffs, throwing her head back. “Maybe we aren’t. Maybe this is how it disintegrates.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not your usual vocab,” Ms. Ontiveros says, quirking a brow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>Shrug</em>. “We watched a sci-fi rom-com over the weekend.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah.” <em>Scribble</em>. “And why do you think <em>this</em> is how your relationship disintegrates?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because he’s...being...weird.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you know how that sounds, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Nod.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you know what you should do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I <em>asked</em>. He doesn’t want to tell me,” Marisol sighs, tucking her hair back behind her ear as she slumps forward, elbows on her thighs. “...And he hasn’t said anything to our friends, either.” She frowns, looking at the floor intently. “...Ms. Ontiveros?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her counselor blinks up. “Hm?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marisol keeps her eyes on the floor. Her brows knit. “Were you ever <em>sure</em> that someone was going to...um. Like you forever? And then got proven wrong?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, are we thinking of the same meaning to the word ‘like’?” Ms. Ontiveros asks pointedly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marisol clears her throat. “...Maybe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t answer the question in a helpful manner unle—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<em>Yeah</em>, okay, yes—” she says, buckling immediately. Her eyes roll, but it’s self-defense. “—yes. I mean love. I mean I’m <em>in</em> love. With Mikey.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mija, he’s your boyfriend,” Ms. Ontiveros says, a kind, warm smile on her face. “That’s extremely normal.” Pause. “That’s...probably the <em>most</em> normal thing you’ve brought up this entire session.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marisol looks up at her. “So you and Mr. Iglesias are in the same spot, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>Ahem</em>. “...It’s <em>your</em> session.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Holy crap—not yet?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<em>Marisol</em>—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you guys have been dating as long as we have,” Marisol says, jaw slack. “And you’re, like, adults!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...What is <em>up</em> with your class and meddling?” Ms. Ontiveros asks, only partly rhetorical.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We mostly have bad family dynamics,” Marisol says matter-of-factly. “This is a comparatively healthy outlet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You,” Ms. Ontiveros says, shaking her head, “are all exhausting.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>Silence</em>, for a little while.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence, and a growing, giddy little smirk from Marisol.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence, and Ms. Ontiveros giving her a tired <em>What do you want?</em> look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...So are you in love or what?” Marisol asks, with the smuggest grin on her face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ms. Ontiveros clicks her pen closed. “You have two seconds,” she deadpans.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>Shuffle</em>. “And going!”</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>Mikey locks the door to the classroom the second the rest of the gang files in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Walt squints. “What are you doing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, this borderline kidnapping,” Lorenzo says, eyeing the doorknob. “But also, if Janitor Jim comes to clean up, he has a key.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grace sushes them loudly. “I think I know what this is about.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mikey tilts his head at her. “You do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Listen...we know you’re trying a new look with the bombers,” she says carefully, gesturing to his jacket, “but it ain’t workin’, buddy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>Frown</em>. “You don’t like the bombers?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They all <em>ehhh</em>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shakes his head. “Wait, no. That’s not why I brought you guys here.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kidnapped,” Walt corrects.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mikey throws his hands up. “You guys outnumber me!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, he right,” Lorenzo says, rolling his shoulders. “Okay—Grace, you hold him down, Walt, you get his jacke—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’minlovewithMarisol,” Mikey blurts out, frustrated.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lorenzo blinks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Walt rolls his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grace says, “Ohhhh.” <em>Nod, nod.</em> “<em>That</em> makes more sense.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dude,” Lorenzo says, gesturing for Mikey to move out of the way of the door. “We already knew that. Scootch.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, like,” Mikey huffs, sidestepping to where the doorknob is, “I haven’t told her. I—” <em>Gulp.</em> “—I don’t know <em>how</em> to tell her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You just say it,” Lorenzo says, shaking his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, like what you’re doing right now,” Walt says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not that hard, bro,” Grace snorts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t even date, Grace,” Mikey squints.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<em>Pff</em>. And after watching Lorenzo, you, and Marisol, I don’t think I ever want to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, that’s fair,” Lorenzo says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look, I’m serious,” Mikey whines. “She’s out there waiting for me so we can go to lunch and I can’t do this anymore. I’m losing it!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No offense, Mikey, but you lose it on a daily basis,” Grace squints. She pouts in thought. “...Maybe hourly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Guuuuuuys.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t get why would it be so bad if you just said it,” Walt says, frowning. “I mean, other than losing all your relationship rights.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lorenzo furrows his brows at him. “Bro, I have a girlfriend.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, but you’re cool.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bro.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bro.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You sure about that?” Grace says to them, deadpan. She turns to Mikey. “Dude, just tell her. I don’t think she’d mind. My parents think you should always tell someone how you feel about them.” Pause. “...But only if it’s good stuff, unless you want to get kicked out of your favorite Vietnamese restaurant.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, been there,” Walt says, shaking his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They all look at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re getting the next intervention,” Grace says, tutting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bro,” Lorenzo says, but it’s not very bro-y.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...I can’t end up like that,” Mikey pouts, gesturing to Walt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(Walt flips him off.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dude, Marisol’s smart,” Lorenzo says, grabbing Mikey by the shoulders. He shakes him a bit. “<em>She already knows</em>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Since at <em>least</em> fourth grade,” Grace adds, hand on Lorenzo’s shoulder, like a weird encouragement chain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<em>But</em>—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“One more and Walt’s gonna make an inappropriate joke,” Lorenzo says, stepping past Mikey. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(Grace hides her phone behind him, tapping away quietly as the boys continue their conversation.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s true,” Walt says, shrugging.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mikey rolls his eyes. “Can you guys please help me out—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...And sent,” Grace says, pocketing her phone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mikey frowns. “Sent what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She strides over to the door. A little fenagling and it’s open again, ready to let through three very exasperated friends. “Meet at the food truck after school.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grace throws up her hands. “Because we’re helping you!”</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>Dirty liars.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re not helping him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>They’re not even here.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s just Marisol chatting with Bob about the day’s sales—something about running another wannabe fusion truck to a different county altogether, now that their truck's got a roaring following when he stops by the Beach after Wilson lunch breaks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mikey’s extremely in love with how competitive this girl is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And also smart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And also pretty.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And also—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marisol waves at him. “Hey! I’ll be there in a sec.” She turns to Bob. “And you think it’s a good shot?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please,” Bob says from inside the truck’s window, playfully insulted. “It is the ultimate breakfast burrito idea.” He flicks his wrist. “They’ll <em>kill</em> for a tapsilogrito.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s...not gonna be the name, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...It’s a little long.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We can workshop it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marisol grins, extending her hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bob shakes it, bowing his head briefly. “Señora.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nods up at him. “Manong.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We can workshop <em>that</em>, too,” Bob frowns.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<em>I’m good</em>,” Marisol says, smirking. She pivots before he can start another argument about Philippine honorifics and why he’s <em>too young to be called that!</em>, a smile replacing her smirk when she finds her boyfriend framed by last year’s Romeo &amp; Juliet poster and this year’s Macbeth casting flier.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mikey reaches for her hand instinctively when she’s within two feet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her hand’s already out to take it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something's different. The air's still the same partially-polluted coastal scent, and Bob's still packing up his truck while humming some Top 20 hit, and both of them can hear Coach Dixon shouting on full blast from the other side of the school, but...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something's <em>different</em>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marisol tries to think of a moment before today when she didn't think it would be possible to care about anyone this way—to have this level of comfort with someone, where mistakes are something you're allowed to make and not another reminder of a possible road to failure. To look forward to breaks at work, and not just because she's got extra credit work to get done, but 'cause there's a guy—a <em>boy</em>, a <em>regular sixteen-year-old boy</em> with regular sixteen-year-old boy tendencies—outside her workplace, waiting to spend ten minutes with her before she has to finish her shift.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tries to think of a time when the top of the list would be Mikey Gutierrez.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tries to argue that the entire list wasn't just him—<em>just</em> him—scribbled down a few times on the back of old receipts with a singular question mark beside his name before she'd ripped them to shreds and split them across different trash bins.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And you know, <em>wow</em>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She'd fail this if it were a class.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(She's also going to kill Grace for this <em>very obvious</em> setup, but that's for later.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because he's got this shine to his eyes that's been there since she's known him, and she's sure if she had a mirror she'd see the same thing on her face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because that's just what you look like when you're full-on, deep-dive, soul-sold <em>in love</em>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mikey remembers every single compliment she's ever given him. Traces it back to when he felt his heart stop at a tender age of eight. When his brain forgot how to make his mouth work and his body move, because there's this girl in front of him, grinning as she helps him up from the ground before summarily messing with him and his ineptitude at tying his own shoelaces.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But she doesn't stop there like everyone else. Doesn't ignore him like his dad, or yell at him like his mom, or laugh at him like his sister.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nudges him, tells him to copy her, and <em>teaches</em> him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the next week, he completely, irreversibly, falls in love.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it's different now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because there's nothing special about today—the sky's cloudy, Principal Madison's yelling at Mr. Ochoa again, and it's a Tuesday.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There's nothing special except they're together, and that's enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When you're in love? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That's enough.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(Maybe those ditchers really were helping them.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you know that swans mate for life?” Mikey says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I told you that last week,” Marisol says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's not even nervous. “Oh. Right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She gulps, unfocused like the first time they ran lines together. “You know how I know you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods, invincible and fully stupid all at once, like the first time she'd kissed him. “Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marisol's lips tug to the side. Tug up. “Well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mikey tilts his head. “Well?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She stays smiling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(There's a fly buzzing around them, the sound of a whistle going off, and Janitor Jim humming by the door.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Marisol says, that flash of unrestrained confidence that Mikey knows too well dominating her eyes, “I love you, too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(A bird is trying to pick up crumbs. Coach Dixon is yelling again. Some construction truck is passing by and they both get a lungful of smoke.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” Mikey coughs, a fist on his chest as the smoke clears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That was not smooth,” Marisol laughs, a hand over her nose. “...Adults hate this planet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you, too,” Mikey says instead, tugging her to him. He kisses her forehead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” Marisol teases, hugging him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you know you taught me how to tie shoelaces?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you know I think you’re my swan?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope that doesn’t mean you think I’m white and an invasive species.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<em>Marisol</em>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<em>Mikey</em>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you so freakin’ much,” he says, fully aware Bob’s eavesdropping from the truck window. “And isn’t it ‘specie’?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Species’ is both plural and singular.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marisol shakes her head and leans on his chest. “You really might be my barn owl.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mikey pouts and raises a brow. “‘Cause I don’t sleep at night?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>Snort</em>. “Sure, Mikey. Because you don’t sleep at night.”</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>“...Wait, are we still taking it slow?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you love me, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just checking.”</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>Mr. Hernandez writes them up the next morning and Marisol’s honestly too surprised to argue before he’s already too far to bother with.<br/>
</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mikey laughs, though—just <em>barely</em> restrained.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re getting detention,” Marisol says, jaw tight and glaring at her boyfriend. “For <em>holding hands</em>.” <br/>
</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Mikey says, laughing again, but <em>much</em> louder now. He hands her the slip. “We’re not getting detention.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Marisol’s shoulders slump the second she reads the line. “...We’re getting drama class.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know I’d rather have detention for a month, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just checking.” </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>apparently barn owls mate for life</p>
<p>comments and kudos! i love em! + yall know where to find me</p>
<p>God blessssss ya and stay safe bbs &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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